


Cold Feet

by GhostGarrison



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M, Marriage, Post-Canon, Sappy, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Worth Issues, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-11
Updated: 2016-08-11
Packaged: 2018-08-08 01:16:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7737433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GhostGarrison/pseuds/GhostGarrison
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the perfect day for a wedding in Skyhold, except one of the grooms is missing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cold Feet

It’s the perfect day for a wedding. Springtime has graced all of Skyhold—the bright blossoming wild flowers decorate the grounds with every imaginable color, and the mountain air is unusually warm and quiet. Most importantly, the sky is thankfully void of the Breach which they had finally closed only a year before. It couldn’t be more beautiful. 

Their beloved friends and colleagues from the grand days of the Inquisition have come from far and wide across Thedas to watch the jubilant occasion. They gather in the hold, waiting, smiling, all accounted for.

Except for the other groom.

Dressed in his finest Tevinter robes of woven black and spun gold, meticulously designed and custom tailored for this most momentous day, Dorian stands before the crowd gathered in the courtyard. _Alone_.

There is no sight of his fiancé anywhere.

Later, in private, one of Leliana’s active agents stands and recites the details of a report regarding the departure of the commander just the previous evening. Leliana thanks him for the report, as untimely as it is, and the agent flees the room quickly after reading the darkening atmosphere.

In an instant, all eyes turn to Dorian. There’s a piece of his heart that should be breaking at the news. He can feel the ghost of it clawing its way through his chest. He’s horrified, embarrassed, but most of all worried. But he valiantly holds himself together, as he is surrounded by close company and he cannot let his emotions get away from him. No, he must keep his composure.

“I am so sorry, Dorian,” the spymaster says after giving the report, offering him her most comforting smile.

“Surely Cullen doesn’t mean…” Josephine starts, but stops when Leliana places a hand on her shoulder. She steps back, considering her words like a true diplomat, wary of Dorian’s feelings. “The Commander must have his reasons.”

The rest of the group stays quiet, no one knowing what to say to fix the situation nor make Dorian feel better about it.

“I say we go out there, find ‘im, snatch ‘im up, and drag his arse back here!” Sera blurts, not standing for the unbearable silence for just a second more.

“Sera!” The Inquisitor gasps, flashing her a scandalized look.

But Dorian shakes his head in shockingly partial agreement with the young archer, squaring his shoulders with resolution as he addresses his friends in the room. “I will go after him.”

When Sera lets out an animated whoop, Dorian curtly adds, “Alone.”

“Oh, you’re no fun,” the elf mumbles, crossing her arms.

Quiet until now, Cassandra clears her throat, turning to face Dorian. She is the only other person present who knows Cullen as well as he does, and Dorian values her input, whatever it may be. “If he wishes to be found. How do you expect to accomplish this?”

“I have a feeling about where he ran off to.” 

In all honesty, it’s only a hunch, but a well-founded one. Cullen has his places of comfort, and if not somewhere in Skyhold, then somewhere closer to home.

As he packs his bag for the long journey, the Inquisitor seeks his presence, leaning on the doorframe leading to his room. She watches at him knowingly, pausing until the right moment. “He’s done this to you before, hasn’t he?”

The way his hands faltered with the pack’s buckles must be noticeable, as the woman lets out a gentle gasp. “Oh, Dorian…” She begins, sickeningly sweet regarding her concern.

Shoulders slumping, he takes a calming breath. His hands still shake, scared of what is happening and why it is happening. “A few times. He ran from our first date. The poor man apologized profusely the next day, but then he did it again, after our first kiss—”

He stops the thought in its tracks, tipping his face toward the ceiling as he desperately pulls the drifting pieces of himself back to shore. Dorian knows Cullen wouldn’t appreciate the divulgence of such small yet intimate details of their relationship, even to one of Dorian’s closest friends. Ever since he left Tevinter, he’s held and wore the pride he felt like a banner of strength, but Cullen has always been more of a private man.

“I wish you luck, Dorian,” the Inquisitor tells him in a voice just above a whisper, a final farewell. “Let us know when you find him.”

The journey is long and cold and vaguely reminds him of the many times he’s made the trip through Ferelden with the Inquisitor whilst battling a corrupted god. Dorian stops in various villages along the way—some no larger than a few houses and a general store—to ask taverns and inns alike if they had seen a man fitting his lover’s description. Nearly no one recalls a single specific blond soldier, as there are so many out there like him, yet no one out there like him. 

The lack of positive responses wears on Dorian, drags him down, dwindles his willingness to trudge through the southern muck and snow to find the man who’s left him with no explanation. 

He’s about to lose faith in his search until a woman running an inn just north of Redcliffe says she’s seen him, even describing him accurately down to the scar on his lip and the hue of his eyes.

With renewed spirit, Dorian pushes further south, toward Honnleath. Cullen’s family home is located just outside of the main village’s collection of houses, but he takes the other path at the split in the road.

It’s already deep into the evening when he finds the lake, recalling it from memory of the only other time he’s been there.

Quietly, he moves through the underbrush, weaving through the trees until he can clearly see the sparkling surface of the water in the moonlight. The sky is full of glimmering stars, and the clearing and surrounding forest take on a blue tint, and the scene is one straight out of a painting.

Just at the end of the dock, Cullen sits beside his boots, legs dangling off the edge.

With as much stealth as he can muster, Dorian stays hidden in the shadows, just long enough until he gathers up enough courage to confront his evasive lover. When he’s ready, he steps out onto the dock. 

“Don’t you think it’s a bit cold to be doing that?”

Cullen jumps at the voice interrupting silence, twisting back until his eyes round on Dorian. His mouth opens and closes multiple times, words failing him completely.

“You’ll get cold feet that way,” Dorian continues to jest, keeping things light-hearted despite the circumstances that surround their meeting. “Though it seems you already have those.”

“Dorian,” Cullen breathes, finally finding his voice. The expression that washes over his handsome features tugs at the corners of Dorian’s heart. Surprise quickly turns to anxiety, then to disappointment. And Dorian can’t tell which of them he’s disappointed in.

He approaches the man carefully, with soft steps across the rickety rotting wood of the dock, and Cullen watches him with soft, tired eyes. He doesn’t expect it when Dorian takes the seat beside him, sliding the boots from his feet before dipping his toes in the water.

Dorian shivers, and there’s a sharp comment on the tip of his tongue, but he swallows it. Now is not the time to complain about Ferelden weather. It’s Cullen’s time to talk, to explain things, what he’s feeling, why he left. He’s owed at least that. So Dorian waits, and it’s several minutes before his fiancé speaks.

“Remember when I first took you here?” Cullen asks, the sound of sweet nostalgia seeping through his voice like honey. “I never...“

“—took anyone here,” Dorian finishes his sentence, an admission he holds very close to his heart. “Not before me.”

Cullen nods, cheeks slightly reddening. “I felt blessed, having found someone to share this place with.” He lets out a small disgruntled noise. “And now I’ve found someone to share my life with, and I’ve gone and fucked it all up.”

“You haven’t—” Dorian says before pausing. “Well, perhaps you fucked up a bit.” He cringes, as the statement comes out sounding a little more malicious than he intended. “But I am just glad to have found you.”

The other man sighs, a deep throaty sound releasing hidden anguish bottled for days, if not longer. “I’m sorry. I was afraid.” Dorian motions for him to continue. “Afraid of finally getting something I have wanted for so long, only to one day lose it.”

Dorian waits, staying uncharacteristically silent. Frowning, he notes that Cullen refuses to meet his eyes.

“A man like me… A man like me can never measure up to a man like you. I will never be good enough to stand by your side.”

“You’re wrong.”

It’s this statement that finally earns him Cullen’s gaze once more.

“You already are good enough, amatus,” Dorian says, reaching up a hand to cup the man’s face. He traces his thumb across the ridge of Cullen’s lip, over the scar he’s come to adore. “You have always been good enough.”

“You deserve better,” Cullen mumbles, unconsciously leaning into the tender touch.

“You are everything I want,” and it’s the wholehearted truth. “For all your flaws—your snoring, your love of mabari mutts, your stupidly handsome face—”

At last, Cullen’s lips pull up into a semblance of a grin, quietly chuckling. “Stop that.”

“All that said,” he continues, “you are one of the best men I’ve ever met. Cullen, you are the only man I wish to marry, if I am still lucky enough to have you.”

“After all I’ve put you through,” Cullen begins in disbelief, his tone is low and soft and Dorian could get deliriously drunk on it, “you still want to marry me?”

Dorian jumps to his feet at the unexpected question, not even holding himself back from shouting in the empty clearing. “What? Of course, I still want to marry you! You silly man, who I followed halfway across Ferelden!”

His amatus offers an apology, but Dorian ignores it. Instead, he offers his hand to the other man, helping him to his feet. And as they stand there, wet bare feet against the rough and uneven surface of the dock, hands clasped together, they give their assurances.

“I love you,” Dorian whispers, a sentiment meant only for him, though no one else was around to hear it.

“And I love you” Cullen returns just as quietly, laying a ginger kiss on the back of Dorian’s hand.

“Now that that’s all settled,” Dorian announces after a passing moment, turning to retrieve his boots from where they lay behind them. “It’s a bit chilly. We could go find an inn—”

“Wait,” Cullen says, his gloved fingers firmly wrapping around his wrist. He doesn’t continue the train of thought, only takes Dorian’s other hand into his own, holding them both between them. When Cullen's eyes meet his, it clicks.

“You’re not—“ Dorian gasps, eyes widening. “You want to do this, _here_?”

“I cannot keep you waiting a moment longer,” Cullen replies. “Nor myself, I’ll admit.” He clears his throat, adjusting his hold on Dorian’s hands before looking the other man straight in the eye. 

After a few moments of consideration, Dorian smiles. “Alright.”

 _‘There’s no time like the present,’_ he supposes.

“I, Cullen Stanton Rutherford—” he starts, his shaking voice growing stronger in confidence with every word uttered into the silence of the lake, “—swear unto the Maker to love this man for the rest of my days.”

“And I—” Words tumble from Dorian’s mouth without much control. He knows his hands are beginning to tremble as well, but Cullen holds them as steady as ever, becoming the anchor they both need. “Dorian of House Pavus, swear to share all of life’s triumphs, joys, and sorrows with you, my equal, my amatus.”

The reflection of the rising moons cause Cullen’s eyes to twinkle, but, if only for the moment, Dorian allows himself to believe it’s because he’s happy. He can feel the man, his _husband_ , smile against his lips as they kiss, sealing their promises.

After nearly a year of planning, it finally happened, but not in the way that Dorian ever could have imagined. Alone, barefoot on a rotting dock near a lake in the backwater of Ferelden, Dorian and Cullen have said their vows, become husbands in the eyes of the Maker.

And while the surrounding forest smells like wet mabari and he’s in desperate need of a hot bath, Dorian has found his happiness.

**Author's Note:**

> My first foray into my favorite DAI ship. I hope it's okay.
> 
> come find me on tumblr @ storybookhawke


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